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Productivity. A word that has long enjoyed favored status in U.S. culture. Americans are always trying to do more work in less time so we can… do even more work. We purchase time-saving apps and appliances and then fill the promised free-time that closed the deal with new projects and expectations.

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As the saying goes, when you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail. Of course, that assume you stop the work of pounding away occasionally to look around.

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I aspire to a zen “be here now” life but most days I miss the mark by a wide margin. Instead, I hammer down each nail on my to-do list, usually thinking about the next task or the one after that before completing the current one (and often ending up with a swollen thumb as a result). Yesterday was no exception.

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Until, suddenly, it was.

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Exiting my car with plastic shopping bag handles queued up along my forearms I charged down the sidewalk, mental blinders on, jaw set. Still, I did notice the row of tall limelight hydrangeas that hug my red brick building slouching beneath their load of heavy, fragrant, pale chartreuse blooms buzzing with activity. “Honey bees,” I assumed dismissively, since a nearby restaurant keeps several hives, and continued on without breaking my stride.

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Then I was blinded by the light of a sunbeam reflecting off an iridescent copper-green carapace.

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I stopped in my tracks, oblivious to the increasing numbness in my hands, and watched one green June beetle (Cotinis nitida), then several more, stumble drunkenly around and through the blossoms. Glancing at other blooms I saw all kinds of colorful insects had shown up for the banquet, including other beetles and bees, butterflies, moths, flies, spiders, and wasps. The realization that I was, yet again, missing my life for the sake productivity hit me over the head like a ball-peen.

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Time to take a deep breath and smell the hydrangeas. I rushed inside, left my groceries in a heap on the kitchen table, hurried back downstairs, out the door…

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and…

slowed…

waaaaay…

down.

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I spent the next hour losing track of time while I conducted an informal census of bug life in the flower gardens around my building and neighborhood. My goal was enjoyment, not identification. Eyes opened wide. Really seeing.

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How easy it is to forget that being unproductive is sometimes the most important work of all.

The eastern gray treefrog is one of many performers at nightly summer concerts.

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One of my favorite things about summer is the free outdoor concerts. I’m not talking about local bands that occasionally perform from the park gazebo even though they can be a pleasant accompaniment to my evening dog walk. No, nothing says summer like the insect-amphibian jam sessions that take place almost every evening.

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I’ve moved quite a lot in my life and have been delighted to learn that each place I’ve lived long enough to grow accustomed to—six U.S. states and a Scandinavian country—has a timbre and cadence all its own, distinctive to that specific habitat in a certain continent on a singular planet in an expanding universe. It’s the soundtrack of home, wherever home may be at that particular time in one’s life.

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The musicians start warming up as the light begins to fade. They’ve been playing the same basic tune since I was a child so I immediately recognize the overture. By 7:00-7:30p the instruments are tuned and ready to swing.

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Field crickets (Gryllus spp.) establish the beat with their forewings, kind of like a finger-snap that varies from cool to hot depending on the atmosphere.

As the evening progresses, though, the cicadas and other insects cede the stage to the second act—the frogs and toads… possibly because these headliners have been known to devour the opening act!

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The band is made up primarily of horns and percussion. This isn’t jazz—there’s not much in the way of improvisation and the musicians don’t really take turns letting one another shine during a solo. It can be difficult to identify the featured players, in part because the cast keeps changing; there are fair-weather performers, some have stormy temperament, and others don’t like to travel far from their favorite watering hole. Still, there are some easily recognized voices.

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Northern cricket frogs (Acris crepitant) step in to set the pace abandoned by their namesake insect. I’ve seen their call described as pebbles bouncing against one another but to me it’s a metal cabana—chain wrapped around a wood cylinder and shaken, not stirred.

The green frog (Lithobates clamitans), on the other hand, is a true traditionalist—no electric bass for this fellow, or even an upright acoustic. Listen carefully and you’ll hear his homage to a single string and washtub.

This lanky damsel isn’t waiting for a charming champion to rescue her (or him?). It’s just resting up for another mosquito-shopping trip (Photo: Tomquah, Creative Commons license).

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Once upon a time there was a damsel(fly).

[Imagine, if you will, a bucolic Disneyesque soundtrack of flutes and piccolos in the background.]

She (Or maybe he. This is a modern fairly tale.) explored the lovely little pond from which s/he had recently emerged after having spent most of life underwater as a nymph.

Who would have guessed during that awkward adolescence, when growth spurts had him/her literally jumping out of her skin a dozen times or so, that she would transform from an ugly duckling into a swan? (Speaking of awkward… let’s just stick with “her” from here on out for the sake of simplicity, shall we?)

So… today was her debut. A coming out, of sorts, and the damsel(fly) flitted here and there, enjoying the warm sun shimmering and gleaming on her iridescent wings as she dipped down to the water now and again to daintily snack on mosquito larvae.

Not a care in the world. Completely oblivious to… [Cue the ominous bassoon music] …the looming presence of a dragon(fly) on the other shore.

Not that it mattered, really. [Can I have the flutes and piccolos back, please?] Sure, the dragon(fly) was part of the Epiprocta clan, the damsel(fly) a Zygoptera, but they were both members of the Order Odonata. No family feuds that she knew of, and so closely related were they that many folks had trouble telling one from the other without assistance in the form of a handy reference table.

They were cousins, but not kissing cousins. No interspecies hanky-panky here, even though their kind were known as having an unusual approach to romance. You see, instead of offering a wake-up kiss, the male clasps the female behind her head with a special appendage on the tip of his abdomen. IF she welcomes the embrace, instead of sliding her foot into a size 6 glass Louboutin slipper eventually she loops her abdomen forward to pick up the spermatophore from a structure on his abdomen and deliver it to her spermatheca[Latin is a romance language, remember].

I know, I know… it sounds kind of weird and kinky but trust me, it’s just hard to describe. When it’s right it’s a beautiful thing, especially when the couple forms a kind of heart with their entwined bodies [Everyone say “awwwww”].

Sometimes they even become members of the Mile-High Club, flying united for a little while. But damsel(flies) and dragon(flies) aren’t the marrying kind. They’re independent and self-sufficient—a characteristic that begins in infancy. Good thing, too, because, to be perfectly honest, the adults are neglectful parents. Dad is no prince, zooming off with hardly a backward glance at the new Mom-to-be, who’s no queen of the nursery herself. She deposits her eggs in floating plants or directly into the water and then washes her (metaphorical) hands of the responsibilities of child-rearing.

That happens among adults as well, although the jury’s still out on the subject of postcoital cannibalism, a not-uncommon behavior in the insect world. It’s enough to give a girl pause (although, for most insect species it’s the guy who needs to worry about fatal attractions).

Whatever. This is the 21st century and females of every stripe and species are all about DIY. Gals today don’t need a prince to save them. Locked up in a tower? Any modern, self-respecting damsel knows you simply pull out your smartphone, Google instructions for making a rope out of sheets, and then shimmy down to freedom.

Evil stepmother? Please. Dial the Child Abuse Hotline and tell that witch you’ll see her in court!

Face to face with a dragon? Reach for your trusty catch-pole or tranquilizer dart gun apps.

And live happily ever after.

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Everyone, even fence lizards and other ectothermic creatures, are feeling the heat these days (Photo: Bandelier National Monument, Creative Commons license)

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Temperatures across the southern half of the U.S. are soaring into triple digits, so I was trying to think of creative solutions to beat the heat when it hit me—why not become cold-blooded!

Alas, my brain must have overheated. Once air conditioning allowed a cooler head to prevail I realized that what seemed like a brilliant idea while baking beneath a blazing sun is absolutely, completely, utterly impossible… and not simply because mammals cannot will themselves to undergo metamorphosis.

You see, technically there’s no such thing as a cold-blooded animal (unless you’re speaking metaphorically about someone who lacks emotion or empathy). Or a warm-blooded animal, for that matter. Both terms are shorthand for the ways in which body temperature (aka thermophysiology) is controlled in different types of organisms.

Most mammals and birds are classified as endotherms (Greek: endon = within; thermē = heat). For these critters thermoregulation is an inside job, primarily by way of metabolic processes. Under extreme environmental conditions some physical mechanisms come into play, but not solar energy (at least, not directly). If the mercury plummets and the body’s core temperature begins to drop, muscles shiver to create warmth; if the core temperature starts to rise the body perspires to cool via evaporation. No sweat glands? Pant like a dog… or birds. All evidence to the contrary, since humans are mammals, swimsuit-clad sunbathers dozing in rows on a beach or poolside with icy drinks standing at the ready are, in fact, capable of maintaining a relatively constant body temperature.

When an animal’s body temperature is strongly influenced by ambient conditions it’s an ectotherm (Greek: ektós = outside). Fish, amphibians, reptiles, and invertebrates rely on external heat sources to get their juices flowing, especially during the chillier seasons or cooler times of day. That’s why these animals can be seen basking on rocks, roads, and any other warmth-radiating surface. Then, when they can’t stand the heat they get out of the kitchen, retreating into shade, water, or underground to cool off (Sound familiar? We really are more alike than different).

It’s the exceptions that make the rule, right? Let’s begin with the usual ectotherm suspects. According to one source, 2% of invertebrates are endothermic. Regrettably, the informant failed to name names but, in spite of the fact that spineless animals are not my strong suit, I did managed to chased one down—snails and slugs (Oops, that’s two… and “chased” may be overstating things). Fish, being vertebrate species, are my regular beat so I can state with certainty that billfish (e.g., sailfish, marlins), tuna (Scombridae), one family of sharks (Lamnidae, including makos and whites), and one species of mackerel (Gasterochisma melampus) are endothermic… at least to some degree. I’ve yet to find a reliable report of an endothermic amphibian, but among the reptiles sea turtles exhibit both ecto- and endothermic traits.

Moving along to the endothermic exceptions… Hummingbirds (Trochilidae), swifts (Apodidae), and common poorwills (Phalaenoptilus nuttallii) all experience periods of lower body temperature and metabolic rate; therefore, some biologists argue they have ectothermic traits. Additionally, there are mammals—certain rodents, a couple of lemurs, and many bats—that enter hibernation or estivation in response to low temperatures or drought, respectively. Then there’s the echnidna (Tachyglossidae), a “primitive” mammal from Australia that’s an ectotherm eleven months of the year and an endotherm during the month when it lays its eggs (Yes, eggs. If you like rule-breakers Australia is your Mecca. In the interest of time and space, though, we’ll have to save monotremes for another day).

What I’ve presented above is a fairly simplistic description of thermophysiology. Why stop there? Because a more thorough treatment would require a good deal of nuance and a complicated discussion of sub-categories, not to mention a stiff drink (the current temperature is 99°F and rising—make mine a frozen margarita). But since it’s so hot I’ll go ahead and venture past a toe in the water… up to my knees, but no further.

One subset of the endotherms are tachymetabolic (Greek: tachy = quick), organisms with a consistent and extremely high metabolic rate. Shrews (Soricidae) are a perfect example—diminutive beings with massive appetites, their metabolic rate is at least five times that of similarly sized ectotherms. Being able to snack non-stop and still rock a bikini probably sounds too good to be true. It is. Finding a constant supply of calories without access to fast food and grocery stores is no picnic. Bradymetabolic (Greek: brady = slow), which could easily be mistaken for bipolar disorder, is no bed of roses either. These organisms swing wildly between a high (when active) and low (when resting) metabolism, usually based on either external temperatures or food availability. (If you think someone else has got it better, rest assured you probably don’t know the whole story.)

As biologists refine our understanding of how bodies work, language evolves and once popular terms like cold-blooded fall from favor. Popular stereotypes suggest otherwise, but scientists are not completely immune to trends. When I was an undergrad, for example, the preferred word for organisms influenced by changes in ambient temperature was poikilotherm (Greek: poikilo = varied, irregular). Although still useful for making distinctions between types of ecotherms, the term is used less frequently now and may be on it the way out.

C’est la vie. Styles change, in both the lab and on the beach (Thankfully. I’m old enough to remember when Speedos were all the rage in men’s swimwear). I’d be willing to bet, though, that most Earthlings won’t give up sun worship any time soon. Chillin’ in a sunbeam feels too good, whether you need it or not (at least as long as there’s a pool nearby).

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Critics are raving about this summer’s must-see event. Word to the wise, though—in addition to a lawn chair you’ll definitely want to bring some binoculars. That’s because the stars of this air show have an average wingspan of about 12 inches (30 cm). We’re not talking F/A-18 Hornets here, or even a Cessna 152. Think sparrow-sized, not Sparrowhawk.

Barn swallows (Hirundo rustica) epitomize the principle of “form follows function.” Combine a slender fuselage with long, tapered wings and a deeply forked stabilizer (aka “tail”) and you’ve got a bird made to spend the majority of waking life with wheels up. They even wear a uniform appropriate for fly-boys (and girls)—glossy chrome blue above and buff-to-rust below; similar to the colors of a U.S. Air Force Blue Angels jet.

Barn swallows are found far beyond U.S. borders, though. You might even go so far as to call them jet setters. Six officially recognized subspecies are found in North and South America, Europe, Africa, and Asia. Generally speaking, the species breeds in the Northern Hemisphere (as far north as the Arctic Circle) and takes winter R&R in the Southern Hemisphere. Ornithologists have recorded barn swallows traveling over 7,000 miles (11,000 km) from Europe to southern Africa, and those based in the Americas cover similar distances.

Whether cruising inches above land or water or performing barrel rolls, loop-the-loops, spins, and stalls in mid-air, these agile flyers are crowd-pleasers. They aren’t grandstanding, though. A barn swallow’s life consists of more than playing with the physics of flight. Like the post-WWI stunt pilots of the 1920s, they’re trying to make a living.

It takes fuel to fly and the barn swallow go-juice of choice is winged insects—primarily high-octane flies, but also beetles, bees and wasps, moths and butterflies, ants and termites. Eating on the fly really comes in handy during long missions, including migration. Quenching one’s thirst, bathing, dating, and defending the home territory—they’re all done on the wing.

Historians disagree as to the origin of the term “barnstorming,” but one popular explanation is that pilots would fly through an open barn door and out the other side (they hoped) as a demonstration of their prowess and to drum up joy ride business. Barn swallows have been known to fly in and out of barns as well—hence the common name. It’s a lot less risky for the birds, though.

Even daredevils like to have a place to call home, a chance to raise a family. Before permanent man-made structures became commonplace, barn swallows built nests in caves or on the face of cliffs. Long tolerated by humans for reasons both practical and aesthetic, today only one North American population holds to this tradition, in the Channel Islands off the coast of California; the rest of the fleet hangar in the rafters of open buildings or beneath porches. Bridges, especially those that span water, are particularly popular due to their proximity to crucial building materials.

Gathering mud by the bill-full, mated pairs make countless supply runs to construct a neat cup or half-cup, depending on the location, then line it with grass, feathers, hair from the livestock living under the same roof, and any other soft, insulating materials they can find.

Once there’s a home base in the crosshairs, the bombardier gets the go-ahead to drop her payload of 3-7 eggs. The pair begin a series of aerial fueling attempts and in about a month’s time they’ve got themself a squadron of next-gen aviators.

Time to put on a show!

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Cougars are one of several predator species returning to historic ranges, even when they include highly developed areas (Photo: Wayne Dumbleton, Creative Commons license)

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Midwesterners are welcoming the return of some long-absent natives.

On second thought, “welcoming” is probably an overstatement… because just as in the famous biblical parable, not everyone is thrilled about this reunion.

A rigorous statistical study to be published in an upcoming issue of the Journal of Wildlife Management confirms the presence of 178 cougars (Puma concolor) in the Midwestern U.S. states of Missouri (10), Nebraska (67), North Dakota (31), Oklahoma (12), South Dakota (11), and Texas (12). Single incident reports were documented in Arkansas, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Michigan, Minnesota, and Wisconsin.

Once found throughout North America, from the Canadian Yukon south to the Chilean Patagonia and all 48 contiguous United States, cougar populations dropped precipitously over most of their historic range following European colonization of the continent. The 19th and early 20th centuries, in particular, were hard times for all wild predators. Eradication programs aimed at protecting livestock interests were common. Bounties for cougar pelts, combined with sport hunting and a reduced prey base, lead to extirpation of the species east of the Rockies, with the exception of a small subspecies population in Florida (the Florida panther, Puma concolor corryi).

You’ve heard of a coat of many colors? How about a cat of many names? Cougars are almost interchangeably known as mountain lions and pumas, but regional variants include catamount, panther, painter, ghost cat, screamer… and that’s just the English nomenclature.

The cougar has had more than it’s share of scientific names, too. Originally considered the largest member of the Felis clan, a genus that includes both the domestic cat (F. catus) and the somewhat larger jungle cat (F. chaus), in 1993 taxonomists created a new Puma group based on similar genetic structure and composed of two members—P. concolor and P. yagouaroundi, the much smaller jaguarondi, found in Central and South America. Another homecoming of sorts, I guess you could say, although whether the members are happy about their new blended family is anyone’s guess.

As the forth largest of all the world’s cats, adult cougars reach shoulder heights of between 24-35 inches (60-90 cm), nose-to-tail lengths of between 6.5-8 ft (2-2.4 m, females and males, respectively), and average weights of 100-150 lbs (42-62 kg; females and males, respectively). It’s interesting to note that the closer a cougar lives to the equator the smaller it will likely be; the largest cougars are those found closest to the poles.

The species gets its name from the Latin word for “plain” or “one color” and that’s generally true for individual animals (as long as you ignore the lighter belly, throat and chin). At the population level there’s significant color variation, from golden to silvery-grey or even coppery-red. Cougar kittens don’t start out concolor—they are spotted with ringed tails but these markings fade as the youngsters mature.

Adult cougars have a sleek but muscular physique and are able climbers and strong swimmers, with exceptional leaping and powerful sprinting skills. Despite their speed, these cats are typically ambush predators that quietly stalk and then, if possible, drop silently down onto prey from above, breaking the neck or delivering a suffocating bite.

Cougars are obligate carnivores, which means to survive most of their calories must come from meat. What’s less important is whether the main course is mouse, squirrel, rabbit or raccoon, mutton, venison or veal. This failure to discriminate between wild game and domestic livestock has resulted in a long and bitter feud with ranchers that continues to this day.

The 1960s, however, were witness to a sea change in American attitudes toward the environment in general and predators specifically—at least in the urban and suburban areas that were rapidly becoming home to a majority of citizens. Public pressure to change management policies created greater legal protection for cougars and their numbers began to increase. Over subsequent decades, pressure to disperse has obviously increased as well, as western cougar habitat reaches carrying capacity.

Which brings us right back to where we started, with cougars recolonizing the center of the continent. They use what researchers call a “stepping stone” pattern. Young animals say goodbye to Mom (male cougars are absentee dads) and go looking for adventure. Travel the highways and byways, stop at an interesting locale, scout out dating and dining options then move along. Sometimes quite far along… as was the case with a male cougar who made it to Connecticut before being hit and killed by a vehicle. Leaving home is what most young mammals, including humans, are programmed to do. I’m as good an example as any, having dispersed from Missouri at 21 to explore all three North American coasts and beyond.

Cougars may have returned to their old stomping grounds but don’t expect fireworks or any other hoopla. As a native who left the area and has returned many times (although never to stay) I can assure you this homecoming will be a low-key affair.

We Midwesterners don’t like to call attention to ourselves, you know.

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Mark Zuckerberg would not be one of 100 wealthiest and most influential people in the world without the help of wasps. I mean the six-legged kind (whether or not two-legged WASPs should get any of the credit is something for attorneys to discuss and will not be addressed here).

It’s a lengthy timeline but easy enough to follow*:

There you have it—no social insects, no social primates and, therefore, no need for a social network. When you think about it, Facebook isn’t just an online community. It’s a kind of virtual hive. You and Mark owe more to wasps that you may have ever realized.

Not all wasps are gregarious, mind you. The majority of species, including mud daubers (Sphecidae), pollen wasps (Masarinae) and potter wasps (Eumeninae) are solitary. You know the type… quiet, poorly developed interpersonal skills, keep to themselves, rarely cause much trouble. A lot of them don’t even have stingers and they take the term “wasp-waisted” to extremes. We’ll respect their privacy, at least for now, and come back for a visit some other day.

Meanwhile, here in the U.S. we have two basic types of social wasps: paper wasps (Polistes spp.) and yellowjackets (Vespula spp. and Dolichovespula spp.). The two groups are often lumped together under the “hornet” tag, but the introduced European hornet (Vespa crabro) is the only true member of that Family found in North America.

With a few exceptions, wasps have two pairs of wings and can be distinguished from bees by that narrow waist (aka petiole) between the thorax and abdomen. The ovipositor (an organ used to prepare and position eggs) of a fertile queen becomes the stinger of an infertile worker females; males are not capable of stinging. Unlike honey bees (Apis spp.), wasps do not leave their stinger behind and are able to deliver multiple injections of venom.

Adult wasps feed on nectar and, as a result, can be classified as pollinators. Some social wasps are omnivorous, feeding on fallen fruit as well as carrion; yellowjackets are especially attracted to open garbage cans and dumpsters, drawn perhaps to the sweet, sticky spillage from nearly empty soda cans and bottles as well as other types of decaying leftovers.

yellowjacket (Vespula germanica)

Wasps come in a rainbow of colors, including vivid yellows, metallic blues, and bright reds (keep this helpful rule of thumb in mind when interacting with insects—flamboyant wardrobes usually serve as a “don’t touch!” warning, backed up with some kind of poison or venom). Because they often share a brown or black and yellow color scheme, paper wasps are often misidentified as yellowjackets. I don’t want to encourage you to get up close and personal to make the identification and, luckily, there’s no need. The easiest way to tell them apart is by their nests.

Paper wasps and yellowjackets will nest in trees, under building eaves, in walls, and just about any other place that offers some protection from the elements. Both types of wasp use chewed wood fibers as the main construction material, even when building underground, as yellowjackets often do.

Paper wasp combs attach with a single filament and consist of one tier of adjacent papery hexagonal brood cells for developing larvae. Each cell is open on one end so you can actually see the contents, if you choose (but please keep a safe distance. Better yet, just look closely at the opening photo above). Typically, a mature nest contains 20-30 adults and rarely grows to more than 200 cells. Paper wasps usually attack only when they or the nest is threatened, but they are territorial. As an interesting aside, the northern paper wasp (Polistes fuscatus) has extremely variable facial patterns and recent research suggests their facial recognition abilities are similar to those of humans and chimpanzees (Pan spp.). Obviously, individuality affords some benefit, even among drones—so much for faceless anonymity.

Yellowjackets prefer to raise their young in a kind of fortress that looks more like what we would think of as a hive, with layers and layers of brood cell combs. The whole structure is completely enclosed with the exception of a single entrance hole. Queens establish new colonies each spring, often returning to the site of a previous nest (the location is identified by a chemical scent marker recognizable even to a first-year queen). However, if the structure is particularly well-protected from the weather—in the wall of a house, say—it may become a perennial nest, populated year-round. Yellowjacket hives may range in size from several inches (at the beginning of the colony’s history) to enormous structures measuring six feet or more and housing as many as 20,000 adult workers.

Wasp control is dangerous, especially for people who have heart conditions or known allergies to the venom, so it’s important to know what you’re dealing with before you take action. There’s a huge difference between avoiding 20 winged assailants and outrunning 20,000. Moreover, yellowjackets tend to be more aggressive—they don’t give up the pursuit as quickly. [For more information on how to safely manage wasps, download a fact sheet courtesy Drs. Mike Merchant and Glen Moore of my alma mater, Texas A&M. Whoop!]

Don’t be too quick to declare war on wasps, though. In addition to their important role in plant pollination, nearly every pest insect species has at least one wasp species that preys or parasitizes it, making wasps a critically important natural biocontrol that benefit agricultural and even home gardeners. If that’s not enough to convince you to live and let live with wasps, when possible, image your life without social media!

I’m serious—next time you see some wasps congregating around your front porch, take a moment to say thanks… just before you blast the nest with with the hose, knock it down with a broom handle, and then grind it into the sidewalk with your shoe to be sure there are no survivors (don’t act all innocent with me—I can see that can of Hot Shot® behind your back).

When you’re finished, don’t forget to post about it on Facebook!

*NOTE: As new discoveries are made, scientists continually discuss, argue, and refine our understanding of the evolutionary history of life on Earth. I realize this timeline is simplistic but it is based on currently available research. My intention was to create a captivating introduction to a post on wasps by illustrating a connection between Zuckerberg, social networks, and the Vespidae Family. If you have a nit to pick about my portrayal of the fossil record and its accuracy—cut me a little slack, okay? I’m a writer and an urban wildlife biologist, not a taxonomist. Plus my beloved MacBook Pro died last week so I’m way behind schedule, stressed out, and in mourning (I did pull myself together long enough to purchased a new MacBook Pro and, I must say, it has been incredibly supportive as I struggle overcome my grief.)

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Roads are both a blessing and a curse for wildlife (Photo: Colleen Greene, Creative Commons license)

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Ever dreamed of going on a safari? Then fasten your seat belt, start the engine, and hit the road. Any road. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts—take the time to look and you’ll spy enough wildlife to satisfy, Bwana.

Sure, some of the creatures will be easier to spot than others… for the simple reason they’re no longer moving. But I’m not proposing a road-kill road-trip. Trust me, the city streets, shady neighborhood boulevards, highways and byways offer plenty of opportunities for wildlife watching. Naturally, the species on display depend on the size of the road, its location, the season, time of day, and the speed limit.

Let’s say your motoring down a divided highway, a conduit to and through the all-American suburbs. The big stuff (aka megafauna), such as deer, elk, moose, bears, and even coyotes, can be seen at 65+ mph (although not always in time to either admire or avoid them). Certain birds of prey, red-tailed hawks in particular, can be seen at both speed and distance due to their habit of hanging out high on handy utility poles to scout for snacks. Anything more petite will be visible only if it’s on the shoulder or trying to cross the road. Scavengers looking for a free lunch can be seen out on the open road day (crows, ravens, vultures) and night (opossums, coyotes). That meal ticket can quickly turn the diner into dinner for someone else… and so on.

Beyond mowed blacktop borders, in the woods and taller grasses, you’ll find rabbits, foxes, raccoons, skunks, and groundhogs. Based on my own non-scientific observation, to improve your chances of seeing these meso– (medium-sized) species as well as small but brightly colored male songbirds in situ you’ll have to ease up on the gas pedal and let the speedometer drop to 35-45 mph, tops.

A bicycle (or even a horse if you have access to one) would probably set the right pace for a rider to notice mice and voles, lizards, turtles, frogs and toads, as well as female songbirds (who tend to have less flashy wardrobes than their ready-for-the-disco menfolk). The truly diminutive critters—insects, spiders, snails and slugs—are hard to spot at more than arm’s length so it’s best to set off on foot and plan for a leisurely pace if spineless quarry is your goal. A general rule: the slower you go, the more you’ll see—that’s what makes the backroads more appealing for this kind of trip than a superhighway.

In poetry, novels, song, and cinema people often speak of the allure and romance of roads—the ones that calls us, the ones less traveled, the ones that go on forever, choosing between high ones and low ones. Wild animals rarely have access to books and mp3 players and RedBox kiosks, though, and I’ve never found them to be all that interested in popular culture… so what’s the attraction?

To build a road through a previously undeveloped area, the first thing that happens is clearing a swath of the existing plant community, be that trees and shrubs or grasses or cacti. Once the project is completed (or even while it’s still in progress) new plants begin to colonize the bare soil, creating a plant community that’s different from the surrounding landscape along with an edge where new and old meet. Disturbing the soil stimulates the germination of seeds that may have sat dormant for a long time waiting for the right conditions. Soil may be brought in from somewhere else as part of the construction process along with seeds from plants that are completely novel in this setting.

Since the plants predict what kind of animals will be found in any ecosystem, the new habitat creates opportunities certain wildlife species will exploit… but in most cases it won’t be the species that were living happily in the pre-construction habitat. Edge species will colonize the area, often using the right-of-way as a travel corridor before and after the road is completed. Some organisms will hitchhike to their new home on and in the bodies of larger animals or even motor vehicles. Birds, bats, and flying insects will drop in from above. Wild things are always jockeying for space and there’s no such thing as a vacant lot in nature—at least, not for long.

Make no mistake—roads are a significant cause of habitat loss and their presence is detrimental to many types of wildlife. For others, though, the resulting edge provides exactly what they need to thrive. This includes our most familiar next-door nature species. In fact, the reason blue jays, robins, white-tailed deer and other edge-loving species are so common in human communities is because Homo sapiens is also an edge-loving species. Our roads are simply one very conspicuous example of that fact.

The natural world is never static; it’s always in flux and each day there are new winners and losers. Are roads good or bad for wildlife? It depends on the species. But there’s no doubt they are a boon for wildlife watchers.

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